Crazy Times with Uncle Ken

by Ruskin Bond

  ‘Up with the lark!’ he called. ‘Come, listen to the morning thrush!’

  ‘We don’t get larks in Dehra,’ I said. ‘And it’s the whistling thrush, not the morning thrush.’

  ‘Well, it’s a beautiful morning, and we’re going to have a great day. What a lark!’

  It didn’t take me long to get dressed, but Uncle Ken was ready before me, looking like a scoutmaster in his shorts (displaying his bandy-legs), bush-shirt and felt hat with one side turned up quite rakishly.

  The bicycles were brought out, and off we went.

  ‘We’ll be back in time for breakfast,’ said Uncle Ken. He never missed breakfast.

  It took us half an hour to reach Rajpur, and the sun was just coming up, sending its shafts of gold through the branches of the great banyan tree that stood outside the village. The tree was alive with birds, and we were free to feast our eyes an parakeets, rosy pastors, bulbuls and other arboreal creatures, but Uncle Ken was determined to locate a green pigeon, and was convinced that he had seen a couple creeping along upside down in the upper branches of the great tree. Handing me the binoculars he proceeded to climb the tree, not too difficult a task, as the banyan has many supporting limbs. I trained the binoculars on the upper branches of the tree, and called out: ‘They are not pigeons, Uncle, they’re flying foxes!’

  Flying foxes are fruit-eating bats, and whole colonies can sometimes be found in one tree, resting upside down, apparently fast asleep.

  But Uncle Ken wasn’t listening. He had eyes only for green pigeons, and he ascended the tree until he was in the midst of the roosting flying foxes. They did not take kindly to his sudden appearance. Squeals of anger were followed by a great whirring sound, and scores of bats rose into the air, circling the top of the tree. Two or three swooped down on Uncle Ken, who made a rapid descent, fending off the bats with one arm while clinging to branches with the other. He came down in a most undignified fashion, losing his hat and tearing his shorts. Two of the little creatures were still attached to his collar, and Uncle Ken shouted, ‘Knock them off, knock them off!’

  I removed them with the help of his hat, and Uncle Ken sat down on the grass and querulously asked, ‘Am I bleeding? I think I’ve been bitten.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Just a couple of scratches on your neck.’

  ‘Vampire bats!’ moaned Uncle Ken. ‘Very infectious. I could go mad!’

  I forbore from saying he was already quite mad, but made things even worse by remarking, ‘You could become a vampire, Uncle Ken. Like Dracula, you know.’

  He went quite pale, gulped, and said, ‘Do you really think so, Ruskin?’

  ‘Then you can go around biting people and sucking their blood. What fun!’

  ‘Let’s go home,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘We’ll look for the green pigeons another day.’

  We returned in time for breakfast, but Uncle Ken barely touched his. He looked very despondent for the rest of the day, and I could see he was very worried about those scratches or bites. I was curious to see if he would develop any of the traits of a vampire, and followed him about wherever he went. On one occasion, I saw him looking speculatively at Aunt Mabel’s neck, and I thought he was going to sink his teeth into her flesh. Aunt Mabel a vampire! Now that would have been something.

  But Uncle Ken desisted from biting her, although I could see that he really wanted to. After a few days he recovered his high spirits and began enjoying his breakfast.

  Then one day he grabbed me by the arm and said, ‘The red jungle fowl, do you know that it’s almost extinct? I must see one before it’s too late!’

  Uncle Ken’s Rumble in the Jungle

  Uncle Ken drove Grandfather’s old Fiat along the forest road at an incredible 30 mph, scattering pheasants, partridges and jungle fowl as he clattered along. He had come in search of the disappearing red jungle fowl, and I could see why the bird had disappeared. Too many noisy human beings had invaded its habitat.

  By the time we reached the forest rest house, one of the car doors had fallen off its hinges, and a large lantana bush had got entwined in the bumper.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘It’s all part of the adventure!’

  The rest house had been reserved for Uncle Ken, thanks to Grandfather’s good relations with the forest department. But I was the only other person in the car. No one else would trust himself or herself to Uncle Ken’s driving. He treated a car as though it were a low-flying aircraft having some difficulty in getting off the runway.

  As we arrived at the rest house, a number of hens made a dash for safety.

  ‘Look, jungle fowl!’ exclaimed Uncle Ken.

  ‘Domestic fowl,’ I said. ‘They must belong to the forest guards.’

  I was right, of course. One of the hens was destined to be served up as chicken curry later that day. The jungle birds avoided the neighourhood of the rest house, just in case they were mistaken for poultry and went into the cooking pot.

  Uncle Ken was all for starting his search right away, and after a brief interval during which we were served with tea and pakoras (prepared by the forest guard, who it turned out was also a good cook) we set off on foot into the jungle in search of the elusive red jungle fowl.

  ‘No tigers around here, are there?’ asked Uncle Ken, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘No tigers on this range,’ said the guard. ‘Just elephants.’

  Uncle Ken wasn’t afraid of elephants. He’d been for numerous elephant rides at the Lucknow zoo. He’d also seen Sabu in Elephant Boy.

  A small wooden bridge took us across a little river, and then we were in thick jungle, following the forest guard who led us along a path that was frequently blocked by broken tree branches and pieces of bamboo.

  ‘Why all these broken branches?’ asked Uncle Ken.

  ‘The elephants, sir,’ replied our guard. ‘They passed through last night. They like certain leaves, as well as young bamboo shoots.’

  We saw a number of spotted deer and several pheasants, but no red jungle fowl. That evening we sat out on the veranda of the rest house. All was silent, except for the distant trumpeting of elephants. Then, from the stream, came the chanting of hundreds of frogs.

  There were tenors and baritones, sopranos and contraltos, and occasionally a bass deep enough to have pleased the great Chaliapin. They sang duets and quartets from La Boheme and other Italian operas, drowning out all other jungle sounds except for the occasional cry of a jackal doing his best to join in.

  ‘We might as well sing,’ said Uncle Ken, and began singing the ‘Indian love call’ in his best Nelson Eddy manner.

  The frogs fell silent, obviously awestruck; but instead of receiving an answering love call, Uncle Ken was answered by even more strident jackal calls—not one, but several—with the result that all self-respecting denizens of the forest fled from the vicinity, and we saw no wildlife that night apart from a frightened rabbit that sped across the clearing and vanished into the darkness.

  Early next morning we renewed our efforts to track down the red jungle fowl, but it remained elusive. Returning to the rest house dusty and weary, Uncle Ken exclaimed: ‘There it is—a red jungle fowl!’

  But it turned out to be the caretaker’s cock-bird, a handsome fellow all red and gold, but not the jungle variety.

  Disappointed, Uncle Ken decided to return to civilization. Another night in the rest house did not appeal to him. He had run out of songs to sing.

  In any case, the weather had changed overnight and a light drizzle was falling as we started out. This had turned to a steady downpour by the time we reached the bridge across the Suswa river. And standing in the middle of the bridge was an elephant.

  He was a lone tusker and didn’t look too friendly.

  Uncle Ken blew his horn, and that was a mistake.

  It was a strident, penetrating horn, highly effective on city roads but out of place in the forest. The elephant took it as a challenge, and returned the blast of the horn with a shrill tru
mpeting of its own. It took a few steps forward. Uncle Ken put the car into reverse.

  ‘Is there another way out of here?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a side road,’ I said recalling an earlier trip with Grandfather. ‘It will take us to the Kansrao railway station.’

  ‘What ho!’ cried Uncle Ken. ‘To the station we go!’

  And he turned the car and drove back until we came to the turning.

  The narrow road was now a rushing torrent of rain water and all Uncle Ken’s driving skills were put to the test. He had on one occasion driven through a brick wall, so he knew all about obstacles; but they were normally stationary ones.

  ‘More elephants,’ I said, as two large pachyderms loomed out of the rain-drenched forest.

  ‘Elephants to the right of us, elephants to the left of us!’ chanted Uncle Ken, misquoting Tennysons’s ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’. ‘Into the valley of death rode the six hundred!’

  ‘There are now three of them,’ I observed.

  ‘Not my lucky number,’ said Uncle Ken and pressed hard on the accelerator. We lurched forward, almost running over a terrified barking deer.

  ‘Is four your lucky number, Uncle Ken?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, there are now four of them behind us. And they are catching up quite fast!’

  ‘I see the station ahead,’ cried Uncle Ken, as we drove into a clearing where a tiny railway station stood like a beacon of safety in the wilderness.

  The car came to a grinding halt. We abandoned it and ran for the building.

  The stationmaster saw our predicament and beckoned to us to enter the station building, which was little more than a two-room shed and platform. He look us inside his tiny control room and shut the steel gate behind us.

  ‘The elephants won’t bother you here,’ he said. ‘But say goodbye to your car.’

  We looked out of the window and were horrified to see Grandfather’s Fiat overturned by one of the elephants, while another proceeded to trample it underfoot. The other elephants joined in the mayhem and soon the car was a flattened piece of junk.

  ‘I’m Stationmaster Abdul Rauf,’ the friendly stationmaster introduced himself. ‘I know a good scrap dealer in Doiwala. I’ll give you his address.’

  ‘But how do we get out of here?’ asked Uncle Ken.

  ‘Well, it’s only an hour’s walk to Doiwala,’ said our benefactor. ‘But I wouldn’t advise walking, not with those elephants around. Stay and have a cup of tea. The Dehra Express will pass through shortly. It stops for a few minutes. And it’s only half an hour to Dehra from here.’

  He punched out a couple of rail tickets. ‘Here you are, my friends. Just two rupees each. The cheapest rail journey in India. And those tickets carry an insurance value of two lakh rupees each, should an accident befall you between here and Dehradun.’

  Uncle Ken’s eyes lit up. ‘You mean, if one of us falls out of the train?’ he asked.

  ‘Out of the moving train,’ clarified the stationmaster. ‘There will be an enquiry, of course. Some people try to fake an accident.’

  But Uncle Ken decided against falling out of the train and making a fortune. He’d had enough excitement for the day. We got home safely enough, taking a pony-cart from the Dehra station to our house.

  ‘Where’s my car?’ asked Grandfather, as we staggered up the veranda steps.

  ‘It had a small accident,’ said Uncle Ken. ‘We left it outside the Kansrao railway station. I’ll collect it later.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ I said. ‘Haven’t eaten since morning.’

  ‘Well, come and have your dinner,’ said Granny. ‘I’ve made something special for you. One of your Grandfather’s hunting friends sent us a jungle fowl. I’ve made a nice roast. Try it with apple sauce.’

  Uncle Ken did not ask if the jungle fowl was red, grey or technicoloured. He was first to the dining table.

  Granny had anticipated this, and served me with a chicken leg, giving the other leg to Grandfather.

  ‘I rather fancy the breast myself,’ she said, and this left Uncle Ken with a long and scrawny neck—which was rather like his own neck, and more than he deserved.

  At Sea with Uncle Ken

  With Uncle Ken, you had always to expect the unexpected. Even in the most normal circumstances, something unusual would happen to him and to those around him. He was a catalyst for confusion.

  My mother should have known better than to ask him to accompany me to England, the year after I’d finished school. She felt that a boy of sixteen was a little too young to make the voyage on his own. I might get lost or lose my money or fall overboard or catch some dreadful disease. She should have realized that Uncle Ken, her brother (well spoilt by all his sisters), was more likely to do all these things.

  Anyway, he was put in charge of me and instructed to deliver me safely to an aunt in England, after which he could either stay there or return to India, whichever he preferred. Granny had paid for his ticket, so in effect he was getting a free holiday, which included a voyage on a posh P & O liner.

  Our train journey to Bombay* passed off without incident, although Uncle Ken did manage to misplace his spectacles, getting down at the station wearing someone else’s. This left him a little short-sighted, which might have accounted for his mistaking the stationmaster for a porter and instructing him to look after our luggage.

  We had two days in Bombay before boarding the S.S. Strathnaver and Uncle Ken vowed that we would enjoy ourselves. However, he was a little constrained by his budget and took me to a rather seedy hotel on Lamington Road, where we had to share a toilet with over twenty other people.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘We won’t spend much time in this dump.’ So he took me to Marine Drive and the Gateway of India, and then to an Irani restaurant in Colaba, where we enjoyed a super dinner of curried prawns and scented rice. I don’t know if it was the curry, the prawns, or the scent, but Uncle Ken was up all night, running back and forth to that toilet, so that no one else had a chance to use it. Several dispirited travellers simply opened the windows and ejected into space, cursing Uncle Ken all the while.

  He had recovered by morning and proposed a trip to the Elephanta Caves. After a breakfast of fish pickle, a Malabari chilli chutney and sweet Gujarati puris, we got into a launch, accompanied by several other tourists, and set off on our short cruise. The sea was rather choppy, and we hadn’t gone far before Uncle Ken decided to share his breakfast with the fishes of the sea. He was as green as seaweed by the time we went ashore. Uncle Ken collapsed on the sand and refused to move, so we didn’t see much of the caves. I brought him some coconut water and he revived a bit and suggested we go on a fast until it was time to board our ship.

  We were safely on board the following morning and the ship sailed majestically out from Ballard Pier, Bombay, and India receded into the distance, quite possibly forever as I wasn’t sure that I would ever return. The sea fascinated me and I remained on deck all day, gazing at small craft, passing steamers, sea-birds, the distant shoreline, the surge of the waves, and of course my fellow passengers. I could well understand the fascination it held for writers such as Conrad, Stevenson, Maugham and others.

  Uncle Ken, however, remained confined to his cabin. The rolling of the ship made him feel extremely ill. If he had been looking green in Bombay, he was looking yellow at sea. I took my meals in the dining saloon, where I struck up an acquaintance with a well-known palmist and fortune teller who was on his way to London to make his fortune. He looked at my hand and told me I’d never be rich, but that I’d help other people get rich.

  When Uncle Ken felt better (on the third day of the voyage) he struggled up on the deck, took large lungfuls of sea air, and subsided into a deckchair. He dozed the day away, but was suddenly wide awake when an attractive blonde strode past us on her way to the lounge. After some time we heard the tinkling of a piano. Intrigued, Uncle Ken rose and staggered into the lounge. The girl was at the piano playing som
ething classical, which wasn’t something that Uncle Ken normally enjoyed. But he was smitten by the girl’s good looks and stood enraptured. His eyes gleaming brightly, his jaw sagging with his nose pressed against the glass of the lounge door, he reminded me of a goldfish who has fallen in love with an angel fish that has just been introduced into the tank.

  ‘What is she playing?’ he whispered, aware that I had grown up on my late father’s classical record collection.

  ‘Rachmaninoff,’ I made a guess. ‘Or maybe Rimsky-Korsakov!’

  ‘Something easier to pronounce,’ he begged.

  ‘Chopin,’ I said.

  ‘And what’s his most famous composition?’

  ‘Polonaise in A Flat. Or maybe it’s A Major.’

  He pushed open the lounge door, walked in, and when the girl had finished playing, applauded loudly. She acknowledged his applause with a smile, and then went on to play something else. When she had finished he clapped again and said, ‘Wonderful! Chopin never sounded better!’

  ‘Actually, it’s Tchaikovsky,’ said the girl. But she didn’t seem to mind.

  Uncle Ken would turn up at all her practice sessions, and very soon they were strolling the decks together. She was Australian, on her way to London to pursue a musical career as a concert pianist. I don’t know what she saw in Uncle Ken, but he was good at giving people the impression that he knew all the right people. And he was quite good looking in an effete sort of way.

  Left to my own devices, I followed my fortune-telling friend around and watched him study the palms of our fellow passengers. He foretold romance, travel, success, happiness, health, wealth and longevity, but never predicted anything that might upset anyone. As he did not charge anything (he was, after all, on holiday) he proved to be a popular passenger throughout the voyage. Later he was to become quite famous as a palmist and mind-reader, an Indian ‘Cheiro’, much in demand in the capitals of Europe.